I'm not sure I can tell you

I've developed a habit of going for a walk in the park at sunrise each day. 1

I'm not sure I can tell you more than that. I'm really not sure I want to spoil my secret. If you knew about the way the mist seems to hang in evenly spaced, ambiguously symmetrical pillars over the damp grass, you might want to see it for yourself. If you inhaled the woody incense of an oak tree shrouded in stillness as you circle it two, three times for the pleasure of the dry crunch underfoot snapping in the silence, then it wouldn't be silent anymore. If you knew how the chill sets the roses, freezes the musky smell of dying sweetness that pervades the park at sunset. If you knew how the cool chill banishes it to the margins, leaving space for the greenery to assault my senses, then you would want to see, smell, sense the difference for yourself. 2

You would invade my early solitude even in the middle of a city, and take from me the cold indifferent weight of iron gate that has not yet been opened; take from me pale stillness of adventure playground where nothing moves; stony, classical emptiness of court undisturbed by ball falling; club house closed and locked and darkened. 3

I won't tell you, and you won't take it, because you don't know.4